Fatal Arithmetic
by Natalya Ilyinishna
Summary: A short piece picking up directly after 1984 ends.


A/n: This picks up directly after 1984 ends. I strongly recommend you read the book before any fanfic. ^^

* * *

Yes, it was true. What a sweet relief it was to accept that, to know it was finally true! No more restless nights, tossing and turning as his agonized brain tried to fathom ways of joining the Brotherhood; no more fear and trembling that he would be found out, that he'd be caught. For he had been caught, and O'Brian had understood everything. He truly was a great man, second only to the black-mustachio'd face staring down from the poster across the pub.

Winston watched vaguely as the waiter poured him yet another glass of clove-scented gin, and drain half of it. He blinked, remembering some conversation, in another pub and another time…that old man, of course, who had scoffed at liters and half-liters, and who spoke of top hats.

It was entirely possible it was a false memory, but more likely it really had happened—back in the days when Winston thought there was ultimate reality, something definite that existed apart from the collective minds of humanity. No, not humanity—Oceana. Any other people were not human. Not even the proles were human, and no hope could ever come from them.

He understood all that now, and in fact he nearly laughed to remember his pitiful, sad former self. The foolish ideas he had had! Trying to right the wrongs of the world, what nonsense. After all, what was so very wrong about freezing the social order at the peak moment? It was like flash-freezing fruit, to preserve them forever at their best and most impressive. But of course, there really had never been any freezing, there had never been any other way. Ingsoc was forever; the Party was forever.

He drank the rest of his gin; burning and fiery, but not distasteful exactly. In a way, this must be how O'Brian lived: drinking glass after glass of power. Never tiring of it, though it drove him half mad. Perhaps madness and drunkenness were some form of escape? This thought made him uneasy, and he asked the waiter if the telescreen could not be turned up louder, so that not one word of Big Brother's victory speech might be missed, if it were to come on.

For there would be a victory speech (he reflected as he left the Chestnut Tree an hour later), of course there would be a victory speech, and then the prisoners and the public executions--shootings and hangings, the dead mens' tongues sticking out blue, a quite bright blue in fact…he blinked thoughtfully and realized he had to go to his sinecure tomorrow, he mustn't forget that.

He was at the door to Victory Mansions now, and glancing over his shoulder he saw the poster had been torn off the fence by the wind, at last, and now the written word "Ingsoc" seemed small, somehow, and unimportant. He shivered and decided to call a maintenance man the very first chance he got.

The stairs were harder than ever to climb; but of course he never dreamed of asking for better accommodations. The Party already provided him with so much that it was obscene to think of asking for more. He gradually became aware of a background noise--an ecstatic chatter of sorts, hushed and young and giddy. It was quite soft but as he reached his floor and paused to catch his breath, the muted babble shot to a rapturous scream for just an instant, as if it could not be contained. Blinking curiously, Winston limped down the hall and looked in at the Parson's.

The boy and girl were dressed in the Spy uniforms and dancing in delight; the boy played his drum so violently that the stick was in danger of snapping. Comrade Parsons was nowhere in sight, and Winston asked if she was on an errand.

"The thought police have her now," the boy declared with a vindictive grin, his teeth as gleaming as a tiger-cub's. "We heard her, while she was looking out the window this morning--and she was _cursing_ Big Brother! In a whisper, but we heard her all right!"

Winston patted the little girl on the head (she bit his fingers but he was able to extricate himself) and went to his apartment, where he opened a carton of cigarettes and began to smoke them, one after the other, as he sat on the edge of his bed in plain view of the telescreen. Yes, plain sight, for he had nothing to hide.

It was inevitable that Comrade Parsons should be taken away, as her husband had been. It was simply the progression of life, and he supposed he had always known it, from the first time he saw her dusty, worn face. He often had chances to see her, since their sink was always clogging—and sometimes he thought she looked a little like his own mother, just a little in the eyes and harried, worn expression. He might have had a better idea of the similarities if he could have compared their smiles, but Comrade Parsons never had smiled.

His thoughts were interrupted by a strangely timid knock on the door. He looked up to see the children standing quiet in the doorway.

"We're hungry," the boy said after a minute had passed.

"And thirsty," the girl added.

Winston looked at them quietly.

"Mom usually is cooking lunch by now," the boy continued. "She must be lazy."

"I thought she went to the thought police?" The girl said in puzzlement.

"No, she didn't."

"But we told them that—"

"No, we didn't, stupid!" The boy said angrily. "There aren't any thought police, not today."

"Oh." She sat on the floor and pondered for a moment, then look up at Winston. "We're still hungry and thirsty."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Comrade Smith, we find you an unacceptable choice for raising these children. Your sinecure keeps you far too busy, and it would be criminal to ask that you decrease evenings spent at the community centre to free up time. They'll both find a happy free life in a wonderful group home, even if they don't find a personal family to adopt them. There's absolutely no need to be concerned over their well-being," the man said reassuringly, but there was a dark current in his voice, as if he found it somehow disturbing that Winston should feel concern.

"Oh."

"Purely from curiosity, Comrade, tell me why you wanted to adopt them?" The man adjusted his speakwrite, prepared to record Winston's answer.

He had no answer.

Even when he had returned to the Mansions and was again limping up the stairs, he could not fathom what had made him go all the way to the Childrens' Centre, where he'd known the Parson boy and girl had been taken. A metallic clank broke his chain of thoughts and sent a shudder to his very core. The cleaners had come already, then. Yes, as he limped down the hall he could see the men in white overalls, packing the Parsons' belongings for redistribution and readying large cans of disinfectant.

The packing was mostly done by now; there was precious little besides the furniture, which was bolted to the floor. Shabby clothes, a "Samantha Joins the Spies" picture-book, and a handful of toothbrushes were the main spoils. Though the possessions of vaporized or displaced persons were supposed to be taken straight to the redistribution centres, it was general knowledge that cleaners sold half the stuff on the black market. Several of them were looking greedily at a pair of socks with scarely any holes in them.

Soon they would pull on their gas-masks and begin the disinfecting process, mandatory before new tenants could move in. Knowing his lungs couldn't handle the toxic fumes, Winston prepared to move on when something caught his eye. He looked in one of the cardboard boxes--the one nearest the door. It was filled with childrens' toys, and the little drum was on top. He stooped painfully and picked it up. "It's mine," he explained as the cleaners paused, staring at him. "They were only borrowing it."

"I'm sorry, Comrade, you can't take that; it's not allowed."

"They were only borrowing it."

"Let's not have trouble now, Comrade, put the item back in the box. I'm sure you will be able to purchase one with your income, and remember that everything you buy helps our economy in these hard times of the war!"

"Yes, with Ultimate Victory so close," another cleaner explained, beginning to pry the drum from his fingers, "there's absolutely no more need to scrabble and fight for possessions! So just let go, and—"

"Trouble, Comrades?" A new (yet old) voice inquired.

"O'Brian!" Winston cried. "I wanted—"

"I know what you wanted. Come with me."

Obediently Winston let go of the toy and followed O'Brian out the door, down the hall--

"No, we have to take the stairs," he explained patiently. "The lift doesn't—"

O'Brian pulled a key from his pocket; he unlocked and opened a keypad, and proceeded to peck out a code. He slapped the metal cover shut and raised an eyebrow at Winston, letting the humming of the lift speak for him.

As if in a dream Winston went to it, feeling each metal side carefully. All the buttons were glowing red, like the many eyes of a waking insect.

"The lift has always worked, Winston," O'Brian said at last with a faint smile, ushering Winston into the lift. He followed, pushing a button which shut the door. "Don't you understand?"

"I understand everything now."

"Do you? We shall see soon enough." O'Brian pulled a small key from his pocket and jammed it in a slit by the button panel; the lift ground to a halt, and the door opened. A long white corridor spread before them, windows running down both sides. They were ostensibly windows, anyhow; the crackles and static flickering across the scenery betrayed the truth. But if you concentrated it was real, and it looked like the Golden Country.

They walked for a time along the white corridor, and then the view sputtered out and became black. They reached the end of the hall and turned to face each other. "This was the day you were to die, Winston," O'Brian said. "You were going to be free at last, and you were going to die with honor and a clean mind. You were close to your goal, but your stupid actions today have ruined everything." He pulled out a gun from his pocket and showed it to Winston. "This was to be your freedom. Now we may have to artificially extend your life, and begin all over again. What do have to say?"

The invisible cyst ruptured, and as it did Winston ripped the gun from O'Brian's shocked hands.

"Two and two make four," he screamed, and shot himself in the head.

* * *


End file.
